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All the King's Men 1
All the King's Men 1 is an encounter in Orange Eyes. Enemies *Royal Soldier (1170 Gold, 144 XP, 90 Energy, 5 HP Normal) *Royal Pikeman (1170 Gold, 144 XP, 90 Energy, 5 HP Normal) Transcript Introduction "A blue dragon?" Crenus asks. Marlus winces. They both remember the words he once spoke, at a council of generals and advisors: "A rumor spread by the Frost Wyrms to earn the support of other Nords and break their enemies' spirits. Digging up a foolish prophecy, as if the Dragon-Rider hadn't already slain that blue bitch of theirs. And this latest version of the story... A clear attempt to inspire our enemies." "The Nords held him back until this battle," the advisor says. "They're sure it's him?" "General Hacan's missive is... garbled. But he seems certain." "Garbled?" "The general was injured in the battle, sire!" the messenger says. She quails when Marlus and Crenus turn to her. Her eyes dart this way and that, as though seeking a means of escape. The king is used to such things -- the nervousness of a young soldier who suddenly finds herself in the royal presence for the first time. He knows it would be useless to try and calm her. In his experience, such requests only serve to heighten their panic. But Isabella is more adept at these matters. She glides over to a small table in the corner of the room, which bears a decanter of wine and a few goblets. From the horrified expression on Marlus' face, he might well expect the castle to collapse around them in response to the indecorum of a queen pouring a commoner's drink. But the old stones withstand the assault, and remain unmoved when she places the goblet before the messenger. The griffin-rider's furtiveness redoubles. She gazes at the goblet as if it were a venomous snake, coiled and ready to strike. "What's your name?" Isabella asks. The woman glances up at her. "Kara." Her tone makes it almost a question, as though she fears the answer might be inadequate. "Please, drink." She grasps the goblet with a tentative hand. Her darting eyes flick to Isabella, Crenus, and Marlus in turn. The advisor makes a drinking motion. She drains the goblet in a single frantic gulp. "Kara's a Nord name, I think?" Isabella asks. "My parents came from the north." This time her answer carries conviction, along with a faint accent that was submerged by her prior nervousness. Either the strong wine or the queen's kindness has done its work. "You said Hacan was injured?" the king asks. "One of the men had to write it for him. He... He was in great pain, sire." "It's not in the general's hand," Marlus says. "But it carries his seal." "He sealed it with his ring." "You were there?" Crenus asks. For a moment she's startled, as though it were an accusation. Then she nods. "Hacan says that we should question her for more information," Marlus says, tapping the scrawled letter. The king knows General Hacan well. He wouldn't have entrusted a messenger's memory over his own written report unless he was severely injured. Something twists inside his gut as the general's two young daughters flit across his thoughts. "You flew all the way from Nordent?" he asks. "I only stopped to change griffins." "You must be exhausted," Isabella says. "I... I slept while I was flying." Marlus sniffs. Crenus nods. The practice of messengers tying themselves to their griffins and sleeping is a poorly kept secret. A violation of military regulations, but understandable enough. "Did you see the dragon yourself?" Crenus moves towards her. He must know... She flinches back in her chair. Her hands slip from the table as though it's become red hot. They fall onto her lap. The king takes a step backwards. "Answer the king!" Marlus demands. "Yes, sire." "What color were its eyes?" "Orange." "You were close enough to be sure?" "General Hacan ordered me to carry one of the mages, to help the wyvern-riders fight him. He said we needed every flying mount we had." "Then it is him... Solus. The Dragon-Rider's drake." He looks to Marlus, his thoughts unspoken yet obvious all the same. The insurrectionists will love this... What better symbol to rally around than the famed hero's loyal steed? "There's... more," Quent says. His face is even gaunter than usual. "Another rumor proven true. Hacan says a Kasan took part in the battle." The king whirls to face Kara. "It's true, sire! I spoke with some of the soldiers who saw him. They said he led a force from the south, and ambushed our troops while they were fighting the Frost Wyrms -- charged into the battle yelling-" *** "The blue wyrm watches!" Your companions echo the shout, either understanding your intent or else happy to borrow your newfound allies' war cry in the thrill of impending battle. It has the desired effect. The Nords who turn to you -- walking wounded who've made it out of the fighting, by the look of them -- can already see that you're neither orcs nor dressed in the king's colors. If there was any further doubt as to your allegiance, your choice of yell seems to settle the matter. None of them raises a hand against you. Instead they shout exhortations and wave you towards the fight as though you were their brethren. The instant camaraderie of war... Here at the edge of the fray there's some semblance of order and formation. A group of pikemen in purple tabards are locked in combat with a shield wall of Nord warriors, the two units struggling against one another like butting bulls. A few of the frost Wyrms have broken away from their brethren. They're hurling themselves at the phalanx's flanks to break the stalemate. But halberdiers are protecting their pike-wielding comrades, using their more maneuverable weapons to repel the attackers. It's as good a place to start as any... Conclusion From the front, a unit of brave pikemen can withstand almost any foe. But from their vulnerable flanks, even a weak enemy could break them. Let along a rampaging oroc... Rakshara’s blade rises, falls and thrusts. Her crystal shield smashes against faces, batters men and women aside with irresistible might. Hugh is beside her, his cleaver hacking their formation as though it were a cut of meat on a butcher’s clock. Some of the soldiers draw their swords, dropping their pikes so they can meet your attacks. That merely hastens the inevitable. The Nords’ shield wall presses forward, taking advantage of the phalangites’ disarray. "The blue wyrm watches!" The shout rings through the air as the pikemen’s formation collapses. A few soldiers, those furthest from the front and the wounded flank, break free and run. But most fight to the end. That doesn’t take long. Even before the last soldier falls, some of the Nords are already running off to aid their comrades elsewhere on the battlefield. But others round on you, babbling in both their native language and the common tongue. "Kasan!" several of them shout. A forest of fingers and weapons point at the device on your shield. "He said you’d come!" one of them shrieks. She points upwards, to where Solus and the wyverns soar, weave, and clash like immense birds of prey. "Kasan!" "The blue wyrm watches!" These two cries blend together as the Nords charge in search of fresh enemies. Category:Orange Eyes